The Man
by XxScriboLegoxX
Summary: Greta can't bring herself to kill Brahms. She looks into those cold, frightening eyes, and she sees the little boy she had come to love as her own. She comes to realize only too soon, that this little boy, is now very much a man.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Thought something from Brahms POV might be fun. Greta's POV will be next, explaining her change of heart.

Let me know!

Also, look for an updated for His Prized Possession soon. ;-)

Disclaimer: Obviously, the first 1/2-3/4 of Greta's dialogue is directly from the movie and not from me. I actually was watching it as I wrote it to make sure it was all matched up correctly.

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I

Brahms stood in the shadows, staring at pretty Greta as she stared into the billiard room. The doll lay shattered within. It left him with a feeling of amazing conflict. His face had been marred a second time. It was a brand new injury. A brand new humiliation. A part of him had shattered with it. His sense of safety. The security his mummy and daddy had provided him with.

But at the same time there was a feeling of satisfaction. Triumph. Smug glory. That thing that had stolen his mummy's and daddy's love and attention. The little boy that they had loved more him. The hated thief that had stolen all of pretty Greta's kisses.

It was not something he could articulate. After all, in the warped mind of the loomed figure stalking his prey from the shadows, he _was_ the doll. He _was_ the child. Mummy and daddy, they never spoke to the man, but they loved the boy. The boy they had wanted but were cursed never to have.

His hands trembled with rage. He wanted to kill the man again. Again and again and again. He wanted to bash his skull to the floor. He wanted to hear the bones crack. He wanted to watch the clean wood turn red with his blood. He wanted to see the brain matter paint the ground.

"I came back for you, Brahms," she said. He moved toward her. Every muscle in his body was tense. Every cord pulled taught across his lean form. He readied himself, prepared to pounce at the slightest sign she meant to flee. At any hint of a lie. "I told you I wouldn't leave you and I didn't, did I?"

She was scared. Her voice trembled. He continued to slink toward her. His head bent, his shoulders hunched. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. The skin beneath his beard itched. Daddy had wanted to teach him how to use the razor years ago.

 _He's that age now._

 _No! He's a boy! A little boy! Our Brahms is a good little boy. A sweet little boy!_

She had collected the doll in her arms and kissed the perfect white skin. He remembered it well. He had reached up to his face in the walls, curled into a little ball in his favorite listening spot. His finger tips trailed along the uneven flesh. The stomach turning deformity the flames had brought to his face.

He came to step in front of her. He did not believe her yet. That man, the food man, he had tried to take his pretty Greta away. She had tried to leave him. She was scared. People got scared of him. All the others, they had that look in their eye as well. Emily Cribbs had when she wanted to go home. The other nanny… the one he told mummy he didn't want, the one they tried to give him anyway. She had that look in her eye when he went to her room the first night of her stay, and bludgeoned her to death with his favorite novel.

"I told you I wouldn't."

His breathing increased. He sucked in large breaths through his nose. He could hear it loudly in his mask. She smelled like peaches. Peaches and vanilla. Electricity coursed through his limbs. Raw, violent passion. It was a need he could not understand. Animalistic, emotional. There were no words he could use to describe it.

 _He is of that age now_.

 _He is a boy, Charles! How can you suggest such a thing?_

 _He won't understand._

 _I will hear no more of it. Oh, Brahms, sit up straight, Brahms._

His fingers twitched. His lips parted. His body hardened. He longed to put his hand down his trousers. It helped with the discomfort. Maybe… maybe she could use her hand…

"Brahms!"

He jumped back, startled. His eyes found hers. His heard pounded against his ribs. Just a little closer. He just wanted to be a little closer to her. Her skin… it was so soft. In the attic, he had spent hours crouched down beside her, gently trailing his fingers along the gentle flesh of her inner thighs. Daddy had never been able to explain it to him. He had never been so confused.

"It's time for bed now," she said. He thought a moment. They had been in bed when he asked her for his help. Mummy and daddy would be angry if he were up so late. But mummy and daddy were gone. They were not coming back. He had not cared about bedtime for some weeks now. He tilted his head. He wanted to stay awake.

"Brahms, I said it's time for bed," she added harshly. She moved away and back down the hall a few steps. "Let's go!"

He stared after her. Mummy had told him she was his to love and care for now. The doll was broken. For now. She was his. He did not want to go to bed.

"You know the rules," she added sternly.

Yes, there were rules. If she would obey them, so he would he. He wanted the rules to be followed. He did not want anything to change. He moved forward obediently, past her and up the stairs to his old room.

He had not slept in it since the night before the fire. Mummy and daddy told him it wasn't safe. If the police came, he could not be seen, because of what he did to the girl. Daddy had brought him his new bed. He liked that one.

He walked up the stairs anyway. He held the attic opener firmly by his side. Sleep did not weigh on his eyes. Sleep was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Put that down now Brahms," Greta told him gently. He hesitated but placed it on the toy box. Longingly, his eyes lingered on it.

"Are you ready for bed?" she asked him as she began to pull down the covers. So much time had passed since he was tucked in. Mummy and daddy always tucked in the little boy. He had been forced up into the walls. His walls. He liked his walls.

A nod lifted his head and lowered his chin.

"Under the covers."

Obediently he followed her instruction. His eyes found her pretty face. His body still ached. The discomfort remained. If only he could understand it. Looking at her, from the moment she stepped into the house, it had done something to him he could not understand. Smelling her hair at night, watching her remove her clothing. The soft, swells of her body. The gentle curves. The smooth skin. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to feel it. He wanted it pressed closer to him.

She leaned over him, face close to her. His heart rate accelerated. His body continued to produce sweat.

"Be a good boy Brahms and go straight to sleep," she told him softly. He could smell her. He wanted his kiss goodnight. He waited for it patiently. Like a good boy. She pulled back ever so slightly. So slowly.

"Kiss," he spoke quietly. Sometimes when he got very angry, his voice sounded so frighteningly low. It had always scared mummy. Daddy did not like it, but it did not scare him as much. He knew better than to let that scary low groan leave his throat. But he struggled to keep his voice high. It was a soft little great, almost lost behind the porcelain mask his mother had given him on one of his eighth birthdays.

"No kiss tonight, Brahms," she said softly. His eyes widened. Rage once more swelled within him. It all but consumed him. He moved his head a fraction, eyes searching her face for an answer to the question 'Why?'. "That's your punishment, I'm sorry."

Punishment?

What punishment?

He had helped her like she asked. He had killed the man that killed the boy. He had tried to stop the food man from stealing his pretty Greta. _She_ deserved a punishment for trying to leave him.

He stared and she smiled. She tried to leave him but he was already sitting up. He grabbed her arm with a vice like grip, but he was careful not to hurt her. Sometimes he was surprised how strong he was. There was a time when he could run at daddy and punch him in the stomach and chest and his daddy would not budge. The last time he punched his daddy for making him angry, he had fallen backwards and hit his head. He had jumped back in surprise. Tears had come to his eyes. He had retreated back into the walls. It was one of the last times he touched his parents.

 _He needs to understand his strength. He's getting to that age._

Mummy had not let his daddy tell him about that either.

Slowly she began to turn back toward him.

"Kiss," he prompted again. He would have his kiss goodnight. He had done nothing wrong. _She_ was the one that deserved to be punished. He laid his head back down. His eyes were still wide. His heart pounded violently.

She leaned toward him and his hands moved upward. He seized her by the arms and pulled her closer to him. Her lips touched his mask. It pressed to his lips, it was cold against the portions of his face that still felt touch.

He did not want her to move from him. He wanted her to remain close. He pressed his face harder to her. It was a strange feeling. It was a confusing sensation. The pressure built. His heart still pounded. She tried to move away from him but he leaned forward. His back lifted from the bed as he tried to follow after her.

Her hands moved to his arms and pushed him back gently. She was no match for his strength, but she managed to turn her face away from his.

"Brahms!" she yelled. He halted again. He did not want her mad. "You got your kiss. Now, it's time for bed."

His hands remained on her shoulders. His finger tips flexed.

"Brahms," she whispered. She reached up and touched his porcelain cheek. "Be a good boy, and you'll get more kisses in the morning."

He tilted his head again. His eyes darted across her face.

"Stay," he said. Her head turned to the door.

"I am going to go to bed in my own room, Brahmsy."

His finger tips pressed harder.

"Stay."

Once again, his voice echoed against his mask. She examined his face.

"OK, Brahmsy," she smiled. She gently ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. He reached up and pulled the hair back down over his left side. The mask was just not high enough on that side. Some of the burns might show.

She moved to lie down but he lifted the blanket. He wanted her closer. He wanted to feel her. She hesitated again and her pretty pink tongue wet her lips. He blinked once as she crawled into bed with him. He pulled the blankets over her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Her head pressed to his chest. Her hair smelled like peaches. He breathed in deeply.

She had a Brahms doll. He had his Greta doll. It was how he would hold it at night. It wasn't this soft. It wasn't this pretty. It didn't smell this good.

Her hand gripped his bicep and she lay there silently. He tightened his hold on her. He breathed in more deeply.

"Go to sleep, Brahms," she whispered. He simply was not tired. He waited, staring up at the ceiling. A little smile came to his lips. Even with the discomfort, the tightness in his muscles, the burning in his bones, he was overcome with a sense of joy that he had never experienced before.

Contentment. His mummy had read it in a book once. He'd never felt it though. This was what it must feel like. She fell asleep long before he did, but it was just before the sun came up. Slowly he extracted himself from her. He laid her head down gently on the pillow.

She was a deep sleeper. He had learned that when he snuck into her room to cut her hair. After that, he spent many nights seated in the corner, watching her sleep. He had wanted to go to her but he had been too afraid.

It would have been months more before he ever showed himself to her, even after his mummy wrote to him saying she was really his. All his. But then that man had broken the boy. The food man had tried to steal his pretty Greta.

He bent down once more and breathed in deeply.

"Pretty Greta," he whispered. He moved along the bed and retrieved his weapon. He crept from the room silently. It was easier, being barefoot. The food man had to be seen too first. There was a room for him. It was where the Heelshires of old would hide their riches. Secure, steel, and with many working locks.

Then the body. He had to get rid of it. Bodies began to smell once the soul left them. And someone would come asking about them. The bad man and the food man. He had to make sure they were out of sight. He had to make sure that little door was bolted shut again… and he had to make sure Greta would be good.

So much to do. So much to do.

He could think of little else but the pulsing of blood as it coursed through her veins. The feel of her soft body. How many nights had he dreamed of holding her close. Feeling her close to him.

But it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted to play.

 _Chores first, Brahms, then you play_.

His mummy used to say it to him when he was the boy. Before the other boy came. He never liked it then. He understood now. And he had to get to work immediately now. Because he so badly wanted to play.


	2. Chapter 2

II

Greta awoke in Brahms' bed. He blankets were pulled up around her snugly. It was still dark, the curtains pulled tightly, blocking he harsh rays of the surprisingly sunny day outside from bursting in through the glass and illuminating the room.

For a long moment she was frighteningly disoriented. She looked for Brahms to her left and right, but the little doll with the cloth body and porcelain face and limbs was nowhere to be seen. There was a few terrible moments of panic. Her concern took hold of her heart and it fluttered painfully in her chest.

She just had the blankets thrown off her when yesterday's events began to come back to her. She froze and looked to the door. Her ears listened intently for any sound of movement.

Cole was dead. Malcolm she knew not. And Brahms… Brahms was _alive_. She swallowed and looked along the walls. Her eyes lingered on vent in the corner.

"Brahms?" she asked softly. She was greeted with nothing but silence. She swallowed and moved toward the door. She stepped into the hallway and waited. She had to move slowly so Brahms did not think she was going to try and escape. If he did, both she and Malcolm were in terrible danger.

 _And you promised him kisses_.

She moved to the stair case. Flashes of the chase the night before came to mind. The feeling of seeing him, Brahms, her sweet little boy, standing there before her… a man, could not be adequately described.

"Brahms?" she called softly again. She put her hand on the railing and listened. There was not a single sound in the house. She set the kitchen for her destination. She was hungry, despite her anxiety, and she knew Brahms would be hungry as well.

She paused in the room where Cole had died. She stared where the body had lain. Only a large smudge of blood remained as evidence of the violent murder. She would have to see what she could do about getting that out of the carpet. If she could not at least make it manageable, she did not think she could ever bring herself to use that room again.

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," she murmured. She hated herself for thinking it but was even angrier she voiced it. Voicing it made it real.

 _You asked him for help_ , she reminded herself. She moved back on toward the kitchen. _He did not try to kill him initially._

"Brahms?" she called again. She received no answer and stepped into the kitchen. She remained in the doorway, looking around silently for what felt like a long time. She took the screwdriver from her back pocket and tossed it on the table.

She had prepared herself to kill him when she picked it up last night. This man, this thing… it was not Brahms. At least, not the Brahms she had believed him to be. This was not the lost soul of a poor little boy lost too soon. It was a man, a man that grew out of a warped little child wanted for a vicious murder of a little girl.

She moved over to the fridge and opened the door. She retrieved the eggs, the sausage, and then grabbed the bread. She set about making a breakfast she thought would make Brahms happy.

She had almost done it too. But when she looked down into those eyes she could not bring herself to reach for her weapon. Those feelings she had developed for that little boy came rushing back to her. She looked down at him and felt an intense amount of pity.

Terror, oh yes, terror remained. Her brain screamed at her to act. This was not her little Brahms. This was an entirely different animal. But her heart held her hand still. If she obeyed him, another time would present itself.

She sighed and made up a plate for Brahms. She set up her own plate and nibbled on it slowly. She leaned against the counter as she brought a spoonful of eggs to her lips and gazed around. Brahms had moved the doll once in this kitchen. She wondered where he had come from. The hall maybe? Or had he an exit in here?

 _Clean clothes,_ she thought as she brought up a sausage with her fingers. _Shave that terrible beard. A bath… alone. Read to him. Listen to music. Find Malcolm._

She let out a sigh and dropped the sausage onto the plate. She could not eat anymore. She was sick to her stomach. Already she could feel bile rising up in her throat.

Slowly she walked over to the sink, stared down at it a moment, and threw up everything in her stomach. Even afterward, she heaved, bile rising painfully up her throat. She spit, rinsed her mouth, and began to clean the sink.

"Brahms?" she called. She spoke more loudly now. Her courage was slowly building. She left the kitchen and moved through the lower floors. If she obeyed Brahms she did not think he would kill her. He had proven as much. He wanted her to follow the rules and care for him. If she could do that long enough, she could find Malcolm and get the hell away from here.

 _He won't be here. Brahms will have moved him. You'll need to get into the walls to find him. Tunnels… compartments… secret chambers maybe? Ask for proof he is alive. You don't even know if he's dead or not._

He heart ached painfully at the thought. Sweet, kind Malcolm.

"Brahms?" she called. She went into the billiard room and stood before the hole in the shattered mirror. "Brahmsy?"

She once again heard no response. She sighed and brought up a hand to her aching head.

A phone. Maybe a phone would work?

She moved across the hall into the nearest room and picked up the phone. She felt foolish as she put it back down. No dial tone. Brahms might have been sheltered from the world, but he was not stupid. She had reason to believe he had been educated. After all, his parents read literature to him. Why would they have not have given him, through that little doll, a sort of basic education.

She walked back up to the kitchen to grab the plate. She would bring it up to his room. She could look for Malcolm and if she was found by Brahms say she simply got lost looking for him.

She also needed to figure out exactly what she was dealing with. His behavior in the hallway, that perverted doll he had constructed of her, the way he wanted to expand the kiss she had placed to his mask, suggested that in many ways, he was very much a man. What he might want for her in addition to the rules he would require her to follow, was not that difficult to imagine. But he had obeyed her commands of going to bed. He got under the covers as instructed. He had promised her to be good before he left.

Was it just a ruse to keep her. A means of manipulation. Or did Brahms truly believe he was this little boy. Was he sort of trapped in two different worlds? Possessing the mind that was not quite that of a man's, yet no longer that of a child. She felt a stab of remorse, pity. His parents had done something terrible to him. They might have done it to protect both him and the world. Locking him away from those he might hurt, but keeping him from a cold existence in a juvenile ward outside these walls.

 _He was eight. At most he'd have served until he was eighteen. They robbed from him the chance at a life._

 _They knew,_ another voice added. _They knew that if he ever got out he'd do it again. They were protecting him. And everyone else._

A shudder ran through her. But to what extent was he still that boy? How much interaction did he actually have with his parents? Did they only ever speak to him through the doll? He did so well throwing his voice, maybe they made themselves pretend that the doll was truly their little boy. In their minds, Brahms never died. They forced themselves to forget their real son, crawling through the walls, alone. But Mrs. Heelshire made sure to keep the rats from getting into the walls. They stored the extra food for him. They were well aware he was there.

"What a mess," she whispered. But it was vital information she desperately needed. How did you know how to deal with him if you did not know if it was a child, a man, or some combination of both that was going to respond?

She walked into the kitchen, ready to retrieve Brahms plate and begin her first expedition into the walls, but she froze. The plate was gone. She fought the scowl off of her face and looked around the kitchen.

"Brahms!" she called. She looked around, opening cupboards and exploring pantries. He had to have come from within the kitchen that day he moved the doll for her. When she had asked for the sign. She could not find it, despite how hard she looked.

"Fuck me," she whispered and straightened. She slammed a cupboard door shut and turned. Arms crossed, she leaned against the counter, ready to plan out her next course of action. But a cry left her and she jerked to the side. A breathless cry of "Brahms!" left her. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Brahms, an empty plate in his hands. She let out a deep breath.

"Was it good, Brahms?"

He looked at the plate, holding it in his hands. He had large hands. Definitely not the hands of a little boy. He looked back up and nodded.

The mask was the most unsettling part of it all. Taking away the ability for her to read his face made everything far more challenging and what was more, was that emotionless, porcelain face of a young boy stared out from the tall, looming, and aggressive body. Chest hair coating his chest, the beard on his face, the cords of muscle that flexed along his neck and shoulders. It completely captured the enigma of Brahms.

 _What are you_ , she thought as she looked at him.

"Give me that so I can clean the plate," she said and held out a hand. He hesitated but then came forward again, shoulders slightly rolled. She forced herself to remember the way he attacked Malcolm and Cole, the sound of his voice as he had called after her when she tried to flee. The more she remembered it, the more she began to believe this was just a good act used to manipulate her. But the more she began to believe it, the more frightened she became.

 _If he wants to be a little boy, treat him like a little boy_ , she told herself. _Make him break first._

She took the plate from him and turned. She could feel his presence behind her as she began to clean out the plates. He lingered, close. She swallowed and forced herself to remain calm. She had to. Otherwise, all was lost and Malcolm was dead.

His breath was suddenly there on the back of her neck. It was hot and slow. Long deep breaths escaping his nose as he came to stand behind her. She could smell him. It was not overpowering or particularly bad, but it was the smell of sweat and dirt. Then there was a slow ghosting of air. Soft, gentle, and cool. He was blowing on the neck. Her body turned rigid and he gently pushed her hair to the side. He stepped up behind her. Their bodies were touching. She turned abruptly.

"Brahms!" she scolded. He stepped back slowly. "Brahms I have a lot to do right now."

Her stomach sank as his head tilted. His shoulders straightened and he grew taller.

Yes, the rules were there to keep _her_ in line.

"Brahms," she said more gently. She just needed to find Malcolm. If she could do that, they could find a way to get out of here. She stepped toward him and touched his chest. "I have to clean the rug in there. I have to call Malcolm's store."

He stepped toward her violently and she raised her hands.

"Brahms, they will come looking for him," she informed him hurriedly. "I need to call and cancel the deliveries from them. Tell them that we are angry with the service because Malcolm never showed up with the delivery. The car needs to be hidden. If we don't do that, then the police will come and I will be taken away from you.

 _And Malcolm will die somewhere in this house, locked and hidden away. Either by starvation, or Brahms own violent hand._

His eyes moved down her body. His mind was on one thing and one thing only. He stepped toward her. In no time at all it seemed his hands were wrapped around her wrists and she was pressed up against the sink. His eyes were on her mouth.

"Brahms," she whispered softly. She was amazed at the gentleness in her voice, despite the terror that had seized her. "Brahmsy. We have to do our work first. Our chores."

Her hands touched his chest and gently slid up to his shoulders. He paused, alert and wide eyes locked on hers.

"Then, later, we can play," she promised. He moved his head back, as if to get a better look at her. He was clearly trying to figure out if he could believe her. "And you and I, we are so dirty. We both have to bathe and change. Look at your shirt."

He looked down.

"We have to get our chores done, and then," she wrapped her arms around his neck. His eyes widened further. The wonder in them spurred her on. She pressed her breasts to his chest. She might not know what was going on in that head all the time, but right now, she could see it clearly enough. This was a man who knew what he wanted, but had never experienced such a thing, he could not put it into context, he could not fully understand it. His eyes remained locked on her, wide, both void, and full of feeling. "Then tonight I will take care of you. The way I'm supposed to. Do you understand?"

He nodded slowly. His adam's apple bobbed beneath the hair on his neck.

"So why don't you go turn the phones on," he tensed. He stoked behind his ear and he crooked his neck. He was ticklish. "And I can make the phone call terminating our services with Malcolm. Then you can hide the car past those back gardens, in the woods." _Hikers might find it there._ "And I can clean the rug. Make lunch and then we can both get cleaned up, we'll listen to music, I will read to you, and then, after I make you a nice, hot dinner…" She pressed herself to him more firmly. His hands released her wrists and held onto her hips. Simultaneously they were both hesitant and bruising. "We will spend some time together."

He tilted his head and she felt foolish. Of course he would not understand the euphemism.

"You can do what you like."

It was a bold promise. A frightening prospect, but with the force in which he forced her against the sink she knew one thing. He was going to have her at some point. Unless she was willing to kill him, which right now, oddly enough, she was not, his taking of her only depended upon how long she could distract him. She might as well put her into a position where she was going to get out of it with as little discomfort and pain as possible. All the while, getting herself in a good position to save Malcolm and get them both rescued.

"I'll take good care of you," she whispered. He looked over the porcelain face. So prefect and boyish, pristine and emotionless. His eyes were huge. She pressed on his chest, gently pushing him away. He stepped back, breathing heavily. "Go on now, Brahms. Get me a phone I can use."

He hesitated. He blinked. He looked over his shoulder. She forced a smile.

"I will walk up to my bedroom, and I will stand in the hallway until you come back to get me. Then you can sit right beside me while I make the call. Fair?"

He gave a nod and was gone. She did as she promised. She walked slowly up the stairs, legs quivering nervously. He met her as agreed and she made the phone call. She did not say a thing that could be a warning. She did not make a single cry for help. She needed to build trust. If she slipped up now, they'd both be dead before anyone could arrive to save them.

Once finished, and they severed ties with the market, claiming Malcolm stopped making his deliveries, he once again cut the lines. She went about scrubbing the blood from the rug as best she could, and Brahms disappeared for a few hours. When she looked out the window on the way to her room, Malcolm's car was gone. Where he might have put it and how, she did not know.

She walked back up to her bedroom, exhausted and sore. She had to bathe and change, but the idea gave her pause. She had no idea where Brahms might be. Despite the fact that she might very well need to have sex with him in the coming hours, the thought of him watching her gave her the creeps. Still, she got unto the shower, making sure that the towel was wrapped around her tightly until she was safely within the steamed up shower.

The shower itself felt heavenly but she could not truly enjoy it. Her muscles ached and there was a constant feeling of fear. She could think of only what was to come in the coming hours. She scrubbed herself clean, forcing herself to step from the hot steaming shower and into the cooling air.

 _You don't have a choice. Take the one bit of power you hold over him and use it. It's not like you're a goddamned virgin._

Still, she shuddered slightly. She wrapped the towel around herself tightly. With deep, slow breaths she attempted to slow her pounding heart. She wondered what she might have done to handle the situation in the kitchen differently, but nothing came to mind.

 _You did what you had to. Now be strong. For you. For Malcolm. He's counting on you._

She stepped out into her bedroom, still wrapped in the towel. She tried not to think about where Brahms might be. That he might be watching her change.

 _He might be inside of you later. So he might see you naked. Grow up. Get over it._ The words in her brain were rather viciously aimed at herself. It was how she used to survive Cole's abuse. She would force herself to grow up. To stop being a baby. It was eventually how she convinced herself to leave. Now, she hoped it would see her through this.

She closed the door to her bathroom and froze. Draped over her bed was her coral dress. On the night stand, a glass of red wine, accompanied by the opened bottle. She nodded slowly to herself.

 _Take care of him,_ she thought as she nodded. At the very least, the beginnings of understanding was beginning to form slowly in her brain.

* * *

A/N: Let me know what you think. I have my own understanding of Brahms psyche, but it is so complicated, I am trying to work through it in this story, as Greta would no doubt be doing. So we will often be going into Brahms POV (probably every other chapter. That's my hope anyway.) If at any point it seems unclear (and not because Greta herself does not understand but because I am, as the author, being contradictory) please let me know so I can give that section more attention and more clearly articulate the idea.

And just a heads up. I work full time, I'm about to move to a new city, and I'll be starting law school in the fall. I am incredibly busy. Please, if I don't update for a week or so, be patient. There might be stretches of quick updates and there might be stretches with a bit longer waits. I will write when I can. I promise. But I am not going to force out a chapter that I am unhappy with.

Thank you all for the feedback about the chapter. It is very much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you guys so much for the reviews! It really means the world to me! And so sorry for the long wait.

As I have said, I am about to start law school and just moved to a new city. So my life has been pretty crazy right now. But again, thank you all so much for reviewing and keeping this story in the forefront of my mind. Bare in mind, I have a new laptop and have not yet added word. So I wrote this on google docs and copied and pasted. I did my best proofreading, but I am not so good at that. Anything glaring I might have missed, please let me know in a PM. Thanks!

Thanks again for all your reviews!

* * *

Somewhere in the dim, quiet mansion tucked away in the beautiful English countryside, was a room hidden from view, embraced by walls of brick, offering a protective sanctuary to the lonely and confused man that claimed it as his home. He stood now before his unmade bed, the doll he had come to spend his lonely nights with naked and covered by the ratty blanket. Three outfits, his only outfits, were laid out before him. In his confused and muddled brain he struggled to decide which he should chose. Which outfit Greta would like best.

He examined them all very closely. Should he wear a tie? Or the vest? The suit jacket was probably more appropriate for dinner, but he had always hated wearing it. He trailed a finger along the coat. He moved over to the tub and turned on the hot water. His body itched with anticipation, but he really did not know what it was he was anticipating.

He walked back to the bed. He stared and thought carefully. He tilted his head and sighed. He wished he could have Greta come and pick his outfit out for him. The clothing daddy had come home with one day. Mummy had been very angry. They were far too big. Far too big. She had taken them and thrown them in the trash. Then she went to coo softly to the boy. Strokin his pretty porcelain cheek. His daddy had collected them later that night and left them on the floor in the hallway. He had creeped out as silently as possible.

The decision proved too much for him and he turned away once again. He moved to the bathtub and slowly peeled away the layers of sweaty clothing that clung to his body. He tossed them aside, angry with himself. For weeks he had imagined revealing himself to Greta. It would have been months still, but the bad man had come and ruined his plans.

Steam rose up from the water and he slipped in a foot. The water began to yellow. Mummy would have been furious if she had seen this. He remembered sitting in his chair after a bath. Mummy sat before him. A loving smile on her lips. A gentle touch. She combed his hair and told him how important it was to keep clean. He was a gentleman. Gentleman always kept clean, they wore nice clothing, they spoke politely, they never cursed.

He lowered himself more deeply into the hot water. His eyes fluttered closed. He relished the feel of the hot water. Phantom hands ghosted over his skin. Soft, gentle and cool. They ran over his shoulders, down his chest. Lower.

His body tingled. Muscles clenched. Blood flow increased. He shifted uncomfortably and lowered a hand. A guttural groan left him. Water splashed over the edges of the tub as his arm moved up and down.

Then there was silence. Heavy breathing filled the room. Low and raspy. But he was not yet satisfied. Blood still pulsed. His heart still pounded. He laid back against the tub. He closed his eyes and remembered the soft touch of her thighs. The way the exposed skin felt beneath his curiously prodding finger tips, body lying vulnerable on the attic floor, just a thin strip of fabric protecting her from the childish and predatory gaze of confused lust. He had been too frightened to pull the towel away then. The time had not been right. What if she had awoken? What if he could not get the towel back on her correctly? Tonight he planned to see what he had been too frightened to look upon last time. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the sides of the tub.

His daddy had brought him pictures once. In a paper book. They had not awoken the frightening desire within him, but they had helped to focus it. He would watch the old movies his mummy would leave for him to find. He would watch the same one over and over again, staring at the pretty girl with the long brown hair and the straight white teeth, full red lips and pretty blue eyes. He would move up close to the screen, staring at her, the need to be close overwhelming. It was something he had not understood. This need to be close to her. His body would hum and turn tight. His blood would pump. His heart would pound. He would feel a strange and overpowering pull. When the movie ended and the screen turned black he would stay there, staring at the screen with a sense of extreme loss. A depression so deep it deadened him. A lonliness he would not quite comprehend.

Then his daddy snuck up the pictures. It was just after his fifteenth birthday. He'd watched the old tape so many times it would no longer play. He broke everything in sight. He smashed a window. Mummy and daddy thought locking all the windows would keep him out. They were fools to think he would not get out if he wanted. He broke all of his mummy's china. China that had belonged to their family for generations.

 _Bavarian_! He remembered her screeching at the doll. _How could you, Brahms, how could you!_

But daddy came up to talk to him.

 _Why did you do it, Brahms?_ He asked, sitting in the corner of his room, where his desk now rested. It was where he would write his notes to mummy to and daddy. They pretended the boy did it. It used to got him angry. But he was the boy. It made it OK.

Brahms showed him the tape. Tried to play it but it wouldn't play. The pretty woman. Mary her name was. Pretty Mary was gone forever and he would never get her back. He wanted to weep. He went to his bed angrily, but the energy to destroy was gone. This was how he felt after he killed that stupid little girl. She was tried and wanted to go home. He bashed her brains in with a rock because he still wanted to play. Then he was tired. He didn't care anymore that she couldn't play.

His dad took the tape away and gave him another. THere were other pretty women in these movies. He cared little about the stories. He just liked looking at their pretty smiles and soft hair. They looked soft. Softer than he was. Fragile and gentle. Like she had been before he crushed her skull. Coconuts were harder than the skull beneath the force of a rock.

But then, after his birthday, he came back in from his wanderings through the house and found the pictures. What a woman looked like beneath her clothing. Soft, yes, very soft. He had run his fingertips over the pictures. He flipped through them rapidly. The feeling was overwhelming and disturbing. He wanted to cry but he could not look away. He wondered if that was what pretty Mary had looked like beneath her dressed. He had them ten years. It was two months before his twenty fifth birthday that his mummy discovered them. It was one of the rare occasions she remembered the truth. She allowed herself to return to reality. Her worry for her boy was too much, alone up there in the walls, no one to love or comfort him. She wanted to make sure his room was clean, that he had new movies, that his clothing was clean and free of tatters.

She raved at his father. Screamed at the boy. Brahms had cried. He closed his eyes and tried to remember from memory but it was not as good. He longed to have one in his arms. He wanted to press his hands to the soft skin of a breast. He wanted to put his mouth on them. Bite. Kiss. Suck. Now his memory was all he had and pictures could not please him. He went on a rampage. He killed the cat. He broke the mirrors.

After that, the search for a nanny started.

Brahms leaned back and rolled his stiff shoulders. After pretty Greta came to him, he thought nothing of Mary, lost in a sea of broken tapes. She was very, very real. Soft to the touch, gentle, caring. He had watched with envy when she finally began to obey the rules. Felt his rage boil. But then he remembered he was the boy. He closed his eyes and pretended her soft hands were on him as he tucked her into bed. Soon, soon they really would be.

He raised his hands to the mask but hesitated. The mask was dirty too. It needed to be cleaned. HIs breathing was hard and loud beneath the porcelain. It was like his skin. He liked the warmth it provided. He liked the dampness it would sometimes bring when he left it on too long and sweat would bead along the creases of his ruined flesh. Removing the mask, was like peeling away layers of skin.

He removed the mask with a yank. His hair fell about his face. His skin, the skin he could still feel, was now cold. He splashed water on his face. Water sloshed along the sides of the tub. He scrubbed hard. It didn't hurt anymore, but the left side was so badly burned, he did not feel anything. He would rather feel pain.

He let the mask sink into the brown water. He ducked underneath. He stayed there and held his breath, wetting his hair. He grabbed a bar of soap and lathered. He rinshed, and rescued the mask from the bottom of the tub.

Water hit the wooden floor with loud thuds as he stepped out of the water. He smacked the drain and found a comb. His actions slowed as he came to stand before the mirror. He combed slowly. Methodically. He did not stop until his hair looked like the boy's. His hair was a little curlier, but it would do.

He paused as he put the mask back on his face. He would never go near the mirror unless it was on. His eyes found the doll resting in the corner, face smashed into a million peices. Ruined.

He was angry of course. Furious and murderous. But he felt a sense of triumph. The doll his parents had loved so much, the doll that represented him, now suffered the very same fate as he. He moved away and dried himself with a towel. Barefoot he padded over to the bed. He gazed at the clothing.

He grabbed the white shirt and buttoned it carefully. He threw on the black pants. He attached the suspenders. The belts needed to be replaced as he grew. Suspenders were more easily adjustable. It was why mummy gave those to him instead. He chose a blue knit sweater. They were more comfortable than the coats. He put it on and buttoned it up.

Nerves were beginning to work on him. His stomach growled angrily. He suddenly panicked. What time was it? He scrambled over to his desk and checked his clock. He was late for dinner. He groaned in frustration. His clock suffered. He moved through the walls to the dining room. When he arrived there was no one inside, but the table was set.

Excitement budding in his chest. He could not really remember the last time he ate at the table. He scavenged, going through the old freezer his daddy put together with him. Leftover food that the boy did not eat. Sometimes cold, sometimes heated, but never fresh. His stomach growled again and he slipped from the vent in the ceiling. He slipped through easily, his sweater getting caught once but not tearing. He landed on the ground with a soft thud. Hardly noticeable.

The table was set for two. The head of the table and the spot to its right. He was pleased. He did not want her far away. He wanted her close. He wanted to reach out and be able to touch her softness. A dirty nail touched the silver. He stared at it angrily. He should have cleaned it better. He rolled the finger inward and looked to the doorway. He took a seat at the head of the table. Where daddy used to sit.

 _You are the man now, Brahmsy,_ his mummy had told him the night before they left, gently stroking the soft, straight hair of the boy. _Greta will care for you. She's yours now. But you need to protect her too. You are the man of the house._

He looked at the food. His favorites. A roast. Carrots. Potatoes. Onions and cabbage. His mouth salivated. His stomach constricted. He reached out a fork.

"Brahms!"

He ripped his hand away in surprise. There was an equal measure of shock on her own face. He waited, fork still raised in his hand.

"Brahms," she breathed again. She smiled. "You scared me."

He blinked beneath his mask. His lips parted. He swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. His beard itched. He looked over the dress. He wanted to reach out and touch her. She was beautiful. Mary was a distant memory now. Brown hair pulled back, a strand spilling out. Pearls were around her neck. She had a bracelet on her delicate wrist. The dress fit her perfectly. It looked better on her than it did on the doll. It looked better on her now than it would have had she worn it for the food man.

"Don't you look handsome," she smiled. She came forward with two wine glasses and a bottle. He watched her put it down and pour them both a little bit. His eyes were soon drawn to her breasts. He could not see them, but he could see the swell. He stared still, eyes tracing her collarbone. "I hope you're hungry."

He still loved the way her voice sounded. When mummy told him a new nanny was coming he was not that excited. She would run out like the others. Or she would chose to stay… the one his mummy and daddy tried to force on him.

 _Give her a chance_ , _Brahmsy, give her a chance._

But he did not like her. She was loud. She was ugly. She ended up with her throat slit in his parent's bathtub, staring up lifelessly at the ceiling for them to find the next morning. They listened to him after that.

 _This one is from America., Brahmsy! Do you remember what we taught you about America?_

 _They were colonies_ , he thought to himself, tracing the edge of the vent as he listened. _Then they rebelled. Allies now. Like Canada or Australia, but not Canadian or Australian._

 _And Brahmsy, they sound very pretty. You like accents. Oh, you will love it._

His mummy had been right. He still loved the way she sounded.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. Her hand touched his shoulder. His body tingled. He nodded shyly. She patted his shoulder and then ran a hand over his hair.

She stood beside him as she cut the food. He watched it with hungry eyes. Next, she moved over and made up her own plate. She smiled as she sat down, scooting in.

"I brought you some milk too. You like milk, right?"

He nodded again, shoulders hunched shyly.

"Do you want to try some wine?"

He looked at it a long moment. He nodded.

"Brahms. I know you can talk, alright. Can you use your words?"

A long pause.

"Yes."

She took a sip of wine and pinched her lips together.

"Brahms. Do you remember how you spoke to me… when I was leaving?" she asked. Her voice was soft. The image of her trying to run returned to his head. He looked over sharply. He was filled with a violent wave of anger. But her eyes were open and twinkling in the dim light of the room. Her eyebrows lifted and she gave a little smile. It soothed him. "Would you speak like that?"

He looked at the glass of wine. That always got mummy angry. He shook his head.

"You see… when you speak like that, you sound like a little boy." She took another sip of wine before lowering it to the table. "I can treat you like a little boy. It can be just like it was before."

She picked up her fork and knife and reached over. He watched as she cut up his food. His eyes, wide and glassy, rolled up to her face. He knew she was about to say something he did not like. His heart pounded.

"But what you want… what I can do for you," she paused, thinking. "The way you want me to take care of you. That's not how a woman treats a little boy. That's how a woman takes care of a man."

Brahms thought of the little boy, face shattered. It might be ruined, like his face, but it was still a part of him. He did not think he could part with him. Not now. His hand tightened around the fork, his knuckles began to turn white. Her hand reached out to soothe him. Her touch was soft and cool on the back of his neck.

"I want to take care of you like that," she smiled softly. Her hand moved downward, over his shoulder. It rested on his chest. He swallowed hard. His adam's apple rose, fell, rose. His body tightened again. His blood turned hot. His skin flushed. "And you see... " there was something in her voice that was not usually there. It elevated his breathing. "You are a man now."

She played with a button of his sweater.

"You want me, Brahms?"

He nodded.

"Yes."

His voice was low. Scratchy. She smiled.

"Good," she smiled. She leaned forward and placed her lips to the smooth porcelain skin of his cheek. She went back to cutting his food.

"After dinner, you can pick out what music you want to listen to. Then, I will read to you. Then...we can go up to my room. Is my room alright? Or would you prefer yours?"

He thought of the cold. The darkness. The mustiness.

"Yours," he answered. It felt odd, speaking this way. He would talk to himself sometimes. Always as the boy.

He wanted to go right to her room. He did not want music. He did not want books.

"I got everything cleaned up. Tomorrow, together, we will call another market. We need food delivered. I will make sure it is another girl," she smiled. He nodded slowly. Remembered.

"Yes."

"And I think, I know it is a rule, that you do not leave, but how about a walk outside? Even along the porch. Would you like that?"

He stared at the wine. "No." He reached for it. His hand froze as he brought it up. He looked over at her. She was chewing thoughtfully. She suddenly understood.

"You can take the mask off Brahmsy," she said kindly. "I want to see what you look like."

He frowned beneath the mask. What did she mean? This was what he looked like. Not the mess of scar tissue beneath. If he took his knife and peeled away her skin, would she think that was how she looked?

"Please? It's alright."

He shook his head. She said nothing.

"How will you eat?"

He began to grow frustrated. He wanted to stay. He could not take off his face. He looked around. He dropped his hands to the table with a thud. The glass clattered. Greta reached out to touch his arm.

"It is OK. I am going to eat, and then I will take these to the kitchen to clean them. I will be gone ten minutes. Then I will come back. Fair?"

He nodded.

"Yes."

She began to eat. His stomach growled. He stared at her instead. His eyes remained on her neck, her collarbone, her chest…

"Why do you not want to go outside?" she asked. He thought of moving the car. The anxiety he felt being outside his walls. The vulnerability. He had not stepped outside since the fire. He felt out of control when he was. At someone's mercy. He didn't like that. People did what he wanted. Otherwise… he got angry.

He shrugged. Greta nodded. He looked over at her. She took another sip of wine. He tilted his head backward. His eyes were on her lips as they closed around the glass. He licked his dry lips.

"While I am cleaning…" she picked up her wine again. He looked to his own curiously. "You will bring some to Malcolm?"

He looked at her. His head tilted up, forehead to the ceiling. He dug his fingertips into the table top. It was like when he was little. Not younger. Littler. A friend at school would want to play with someone else. He'd felt the rage then too. They should be happy enough with him. He felt that way now, only much, much worse.

"He needs to eat," she said gently. She reached out and touched his hand. Gently her fingertips stroked his hand. So soft. So gentle. He wanted her closer again. Like he had with Mary, but here she was, right in front of him. He lifted a hand. He reached for the stray hair falling from her loose bun. He breathed in deeply, trying to smell her. He would at night when she was asleep. He would creep into her room, kneel by her pillow, and breath in deeply. There was a force, pushing him toward her and holding him back. He was kept in a type of limbo, unable to move. His entire being longed for contact. "Brahms, do you understand that it will upset me if he dies?"

Her voice was soft.

"It would upset me if anyone died. I do not want to be responsible for it. Do you understand that?"

He did not answer and she reached up to touch his hand. A gush of air escaped his lungs. He hunched forward, leaning toward her. He nodded.

"He ate," he said. "Earlier."

It felt odd, stringing together so many words to someone else. He spoke to himself often. He often felt his brain vibrating in his skull when he spent too long in the silence. He would listen to his mummy and daddy talk to the boy. He would answer back softly from his hiding place. He would do this until they responded incorrectly. Then he would get angry and leave, muttering to himself darkly.

"And water?"

"Water too."

"You have such a handsome voice," she smiled. She jabbed at the last carrot with her fork. She took another big swig of wine and then poured herself a little more. She touched his sweater. "I like this."

He smiled proudly behind the mask. His cheeks turned red with a boyish blush.

She smiled at him. Her eyes lit up when she smiled. He was full to the brim with happiness. A contentedness he had never experienced before. He wanted to be closer.

"I am going to go bring these plates out now, alright? And I will be back in ten minutes. Can you tell time?"

He looked to the clock. He nodded.

"So, at six fifteen, I am going to come right back here."

"Yes," he responded. He watched her collect the plates. Delicate, so beautiful… the bad man had hurt her. It made him angry. His face curled into a snarl beneath the void covering the ruined flesh. He had listened to her conversations. He listened to her and the food man discuss it briefly. He watched the way he had forced her up against the pool table. It made killing him for hurting the boy that much easier.

She left the room and he took his plate. He turned his back to the door just in case. Lifting up the mask he ate quickly, relishing the warm food. Grease coated his lips. He was careful not to ruin his clothing. He took a sip of the wine once he was finished eating. It had to be good. Greta drank it so often.

The sour liquid touched his tongue and he grimaced. He let it spill out into the glass with a slosh and shuddered. How she could like such a drunk. He reached for the milk quickly. He tilted back his head and drank it all. He finished in under five minutes. The less time the mask was off his face the better.

He put it back on and waited. He stared anxiously at the clock. She arrived two minutes after five fifteen. She knocked on the doorframe before entering. She did not even step into view until she knocked twice.

"Do you want to pick out some music, Brahms? And a book while I clean? Then I will meet you there?"

She came forward but Brahms stood abruptly. She froze. Her smile froze. He walked toward her slowly, shoulders hunched and head lowered. He stopped before her. His body was humming with impatience. He didn't care about music. He didn't care about books. He wanted her.

He reached out and seized her arms tightly. Her eyes widened with fear. He yanked her closer. His breathing was heavy.

"Brahms?" she asked. He leaned in and breathed deeply. She smelled like vanilla. Vanilla and strawberries. He stepped closer. His fingertips turned bruising as he pressed his mask to her hair. He was almost panting now. His shoulders went up and down.

The pictures. The aching longing he felt staring at Mary on the TV screen. The feel of her thighs beneath in his fingertips.

He did not know what to do. He jerked her forward then back. His fingernails dug into her skin. He nearly shook her. He wanted to be close. He wanted to feel her pressed close to him. He wanted, needed, more. He just didn't know how.

A low, strangled groan left him and he pressed himself closer. His skin was pulled taut over his building muscles. Eyes were squeezed tightly. Breathing labored. He needed more. He squeezed harder and a cry left her.

"Brahms! Brahms!"

Her hands touched the sides of his neck. He jerked back in surprise. He didn't want her to take off his mask.

"You're hurting me, Brahmsy. Do you want to hurt me?"

He shook his head. Remembered. "No."

"We can go right up to my room," she smiled sweetly. "And then I will take good care of you."

He stared at her. His eyes were wide. He licked his lips to wet them. He swallowed hard.

"I know what you want," she told him. His lips parted. His heart thundered. "I know exactly what you want. I can give it to you."

His hands slowly released their violent hold. She smiled and took his head. Silently, with a painfully beating heart and a swell of emotion he could not quite comprehend, he followed his pretty Greta back to her bedroom, her leading him gently by the hand.

* * *

A/N: I was going to add the next part of the story in this chapter, but that could be another four thousand words and another week or two. So I thought, since you all waited so long, I would I put this portion of it up.


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